


changing myself to fit the shape of you

by stardusting



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince!Prompto, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, more like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardusting/pseuds/stardusting
Summary: I build bridges with these arms, I will not build a fortressHis engagement to the Crown Prince of Lucis is an auspicious event, one to signify the end of a long and drawn out era of conflict. The people are happy and both councils are pleased. Treaties will be signed and peace will finally be had for the two nations with no worry of guns being raised and people dying in the name of crown and country for as long as they both shall reign.





	changing myself to fit the shape of you

**Author's Note:**

> *sips my caprisun* i have no self control and craved slow burn and political intrigue and gay princes

**SPOTLIGHT:** Marriage of the century announced

Prompto scrolls pass similar headlines, eyes skimming briefly over article after article, thumb dancing across the glossy surface of his phone in his haste. He doesn’t need to read any of them, having been present when the announcement was first made – a young figure next to his Emperor father, standing silent and straight through the entire address, Prince of the Empire robed in the country’s finest red and white.

He knew the nature of the announcement when it was just an inkling of an idea, a small possibility to be considered amidst the other agreements that went into drafted treaties to be looked over, crossed out, and reworked back into the final product. What was once a possibility, an impossible possibility, is now a reality he’ll face sooner rather than later.

His engagement to the Crown Prince of Lucis is an auspicious event, one to signify the end of a long and drawn out era of conflict. The people are happy and both councils are pleased. Treaties will be signed and peace will finally be had for the two nations with no worry of guns being raised and people dying in the name of crown and country for as long as they both shall reign.

Prompto should be happy if only for his people, if only for the fact that he won’t have to lead a country to war when he finally takes the throne. If only for the fact that his reign will be one of peace, the first in what seems like a lifetime – and very nearly is for most people born in his generation. He can’t though, selfish as it is, he can’t find himself to be happy about this. The idea of it – this marriage for politics instead of love – makes something dark and sickly curl in the pit of his stomach. But that doesn’t matter, personal feelings don’t matter when you have the blood of nobility in your veins – when you’re raised to put duty to the Empire above all else.

There has never been a _boy_ that _grew_ , only a _Prince_ that was _raised_ , something that Prompto is never allowed to forget, even for a moment.

With this marriage, he feels like he’s stealing from people – from Prince Noctis, from Lucis, from all of Eos. No one expected Prompto to be the one the Lucian prince would end up marrying. Everyone had their sights on Lady Oracle Lunafreya, speculated and questioned and hoped because the two would be lovely together. Anyone could see that. Prompto has read the articles featuring the two during brief reprieves between tutoring sessions and the handful of meetings he’s been allowed to sit through; he knows the anticipation of a marriage announcement had held the attention of Eos since the Prince Noctis reached his majority. Lady Lunafreya had even written it in her letters to Prompto, few as they were to him throughout the years, that she wouldn’t mind marrying Prince Noctis one day if it truly came to that.

Prompto is the one that doesn’t slot neatly into all of this. Niflheim has always held what it deemed most important closely and their prince is an elusive figure to even the people of the nation he was promised to. In the past nineteen years of his life, very few stories and news talks have featured him, so the only information those outside the royal employ are certain of is that Prompto was born the twenty-fifth of October and was named heir apparent a year after, that his mother died when he was three, and that he’s now engaged to Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. The rest is up to speculation from the few times he’d been allowed to stand next to his father during announcements and attend diplomatic trips during small moments of ceasefire.

Prompto feels akin to the worst kind of thief, someone unknown taking the place of someone preferred, but he also feels stolen from. What is stolen, he isn’t quite sure. After all, what can a prince of a nation ever lack?

 

-

 

A week after the announcement is officially made, Prompto is to make his way to Lucis where the wedding will be held. In her most recent letter that Pryna delivers, Lady Lunafreya wishes him luck on his journey. The Oracle promises a blessing of the Astrals upon him and wishes she could attend herself, but her duties mean she is rarely far from Tenebrae for long. Prompto doesn’t blame her and promises her that he’ll write again once he’s settled. 

The night before the departure is filled with broken sleep and anxious pacing. Prompto snaps pictures of the night blooming winter flowers he can see from his balcony. Niflheim isn’t known for its flora, so maybe he’ll show Prince Noctis when he’s comfortable enough to share. That, however, seems as far off as them one day getting along.

“Didn’t sleep well, I see,” says Genevieve when she enters his room the morning he’s set to leave, a trolley of Prompto’s favorite breakfast foods and tea being pushed in front of her.

He would deny it if it were someone else, but Genevieve – Miss Ginny as Prompto has called her since he was young and his tongue stumbled on the long structure of her name – has known Prompto since before he was born, a handmaiden to his mother when the queen was pregnant with him and is now one of the few royal employ he feels completely confident in confiding in without worry of anything reaching back to his father. Her age shows in the gray of her hair and the crow’s feet nestled at the corner of her eyes, but she moves just the same she did when Prompto was four and had to be chased around the nursery.

“I’m just a little nervous,” Prompto admits, hands curling around the smooth ceramic of a teacup as he spills the half lie.  

Miss Ginny looks as though she doesn’t believe him, and Prompto keeps himself occupied by sipping at the warm honey sweetened tea inside his cup while she bustles across his room to open the curtains. It’s not as if the sun will be shining anyway during this time of year when there are only a few days of sunlight for the entire season, so she flicks a few more lights on as she goes.

“It’s okay to be more than a little nervous, Highness. Not every day you get engaged and travel to another nation to get married.”

“You’ve been married three different times,” Prompto mutters, stuffing a piece of bacon in his mouth when Miss Ginny gives him a _look_ from over her shoulder.

She makes her way over back to him after opening the curtains and revealing a nighttime sky. Even at five in the morning, there’s no trace of dawn in sight. Her steps are confident and sure despite the length of her uniform’s skirt and her old knees. Prompto feels as though he’s about to get a lecture when she stands in front of him, hands poised on her hips and lines around her mouth making her seem firmer than she ever has in the years Prompto has known her. 

“Prompto,” she whispers and her voice is soft, expression shaping into something that’s fond. She rests a warm hand against his cheek, something she often did when he was younger and needed consoling. Something she hasn’t done in a long while. In this moment Prompto realizes how much he’s grown – how much she’s aged, and he feels a tangle of emotion threatening to clog his throat. “I’m proud of you, and I will miss you, my dear boy.”

If the Crowned Prince of Niflheim sheds tears in that moment when his hair is still sleep rumbled and his breakfast is growing cold, then no one needs to know.

 

-

 

The maids that specifically assigned to Prompto while he was growing up have always been the kind sort. Having been in his mother’s service before he was born, they agreed to stick close to him after she died, told him stories about her when his father refused to even mention her name. They’re not substitutes for an actual mother, but Prompto found he never minded the extra attention they’ve given him throughout the years, always willing to indulge him within reason, answering his questions whenever possible.  

Princes raised in large lonely castles always grow up differently, always yearn a little more keenly for different types of affection.

They’re all excited and sadden by him leaving, their mild chatter filling his room as they clean and pack the last of his belongings. Most of the other things are already on route to Lucis if they aren’t there already. Over the week, Prompto has watched his room become slowly stripped bare until all that’s left is the bare minimum to make it inhabitable still. It’s heartwrenching to see how quickly his presence can be erased for a space he’s lived in for fifteen years. 

“Prince Noctis had an interview yesterday morning,” says Sophia as she makes sure Prompto’s clothes fit appropriately even though the tailor’s triple checked just yesterday, “apparently he was asked lots of questions about meeting you. You might be able to pull it up if you’d like.”

Prompto hums, “Might not have time,” he says mildly.

That’s a lie, of course, but a believable one. Prompto’s learned at an early age how to bypass the block Niflheim has on anything Lucian related, curiosity and boredom urging him forth. It would probably take him less than two minutes to pull the interview on his laptop, but he’d rather not see what was said about him when he wasn’t around. He’s already anxious enough as it is.

“Leave the Prince alone, Sophia,” Delilah pipes up, books she removed from the shelves held in her arms and a look of disproval on her face, “now’s the last time for gossip.”

Sophia huffs, satisfied with the fit of the clothes to leave Prompto to his own devices though he stays standing in front of the mirror, unsure of what to do as the women fuss at each other, “I wasn’t mentioning it for gossip. I just thought it’d be nice for the Prince to know his betrothed been talking about him.”

“Oh, like Lucis would actually allow their Prince to say anything incriminating on television when the treaty isn’t signed yet and the marriage is still a month away,” calls a third voice from across the room. Prompto can practically hear an eye roll in Helena’s voice.

“Ladies,” Miss Ginny cuts through the rising din of a possible argument, voice firm and carried easily through the near empty room. “can we please not gossip like scullery maids about our Prince’s affairs and especially not in front of him.”

“It’s fine,” Prompto hastily interjects, “Lucis doesn’t know much about me. They’re curious. Probably wants to see if Prince Noctis knows more than the public and how much of that he can share.”

“It’s not as if he knows a lot,” Delilah mutters, “you’ve never met him, have you, Your Highness?”

“Never even sent a letter,” he confirms, sitting down in the only chair left in the room. He’s been up for barely two hours and already he feels exhausted. He’s been feeling exhausted for the past week now.

There’s a silence that overtakes the room, made more oppressive by the emptiness of the space and silent darkness outside. Prompto wishes he could fake a smile so the mood wouldn’t have plummeted so fast, but these are the women who have known him the longest of the staff. They’d be able to see a mask before it slotted in place.

 There’s a soft shifting of fabric and the feeling of fine-boned fingers stroking his hair, something that hasn’t been done since Prompto was younger and plagued by childhood nightmares.

He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Sophia, this is her way of comfort after all, “If you don’t mind me saying, Highness, I think you’re very brave. The bravest even.”

He blinks, shocked, adjusting his posture so he can see her. He almost wishes he doesn’t, seeing how fond and sad her pale eyes look.

“I’m not really,” he defends, though there’s nothing behind it besides air.

“Oh, but you are. Only nineteen and the best Niflheim has to offer, the kindest boy I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Going off alone into former enemy territory and getting married to a prince you’ve never met before.”

“That’s,” he stops and finds himself needing to start again, “that’s not bravery, that’s me doing my duty. I have to, for people’s sake, for Niflheim.”

Sophia smiles, the laugh lines on her face shift and become more noticeable in this moment, “And still, you think of us when it’s you who’s the most affected by this change. That’s kindness, dear. That’s bravery. You would have made your mother so proud.”

His mother is not mentioned lightly these days. Aeliana Argentum is a name sacred within the castle, within the country, and Prompto doesn’t feel he would have made her anything but sad and maybe disappointed. His mouth moves ready to form words of denial when there’s a knock at his door, two raps and a voice that ruins the mood of every occasion.

The women move back to their tasks quickly, Sophia removing the sheets from the bed to compensate for the fact that she was fussing over Prompto’s clothes earlier. Prompto stands from the chair, still slightly shaken, but he can pass it off as nerves if questioned. Blatant displays of emotion are frowned upon, but he is used to being frowned at.

“Come in,” he calls and Chancellor Izunia enters and seems to suddenly take up the entire space. “Is there something you wanted, Chancellor?”

The man smiles in a way that Prompto has learned to be wary of, circles him like a bird of prey would a cornered animal, “I just wanted to check on you, see how the last of the preparations were fairing. You’re to leave soon, yes?”

He knows Chancellor Izunia knows the answer, but Prompto nods regardless, “Less than an hour. Couldn’t wait at the airship docks to say goodbye?”

“The entirety of Niflheim will be wishing you farewell there; besides, there’s something I need to speak with you about. Indulge an old man, if you would.”

“Would you prefer to step outside then?” Prompto doesn’t wish to put the ladies in a position where they might overhear something they shouldn’t. Suddenly missing servants isn’t an uncommon tale around the castle.

Chancellor Izunia agrees with no fuss, and Prompto leads them out of his suite and down the dimly lit hall, pausing in front of a painting of an emperor he can’t remember the name of. They all look the same: angry and old and male, nothing worth wild he’s learned.

“The Emperor wished for me to relay a message to you,” Chancellor Izunia begins and Prompto tries his best not shrink away, “something along the lines of _don’t ruin this for the Empire_ and _you have a task, so make sure you get it done._ He said more than that, but that was the gist.”

Prompto licks his lips, tries his best to keep eye contact. “It makes sense for him to be worried, it’s an important event after all. However, His Majesty has nothing to worry about. I’m honored to serve the Empire in any capacity.”

He isn’t sure when he became so wary of Chancellor Izunia, having enjoyed the company of the man when he was younger and the attention could be spared. He was, after all, the person that gifted Prompto his first camera and wasn’t deterred from being used as a practice model and encouraged the prince’s enthusiasm for the hobby. Prompto still has those pictures, blurry and candid and curling at the edges with age. Relics of a simpler time when he was more naïve.

“Good answer, Your Highness,” Chancellor Izunia says and briefly places a hand on his shoulder. “His Majesty will be so pleased with your understanding.”

There’s nothing said after that, only the chancellor dropping his hand and walking away, the sound of his shoes muffled thuds echoing against the walls. Prompto exhales a breath, hands clenched into fists so tight he can feel the bite of his nails digging into his skin.

To himself, with only the old portraits to hear, he mutters, “For duty and the Empire.”

 

-

 

When it’s time for Prompto to leave, the airship dock is devoid of many people for the sake of safety and decorum. He spots a news crew on the scene, a singular one broadcasting his departure live to all of Niflheim. How will the people miss someone they’ve barely even known? Prompto isn’t sure and he’d rather not dwell on it too long. He knows they’re just glad to have this war end even if it means losing a prince.

Emperor Aldercapt stands surrounded by guards, an aged and regal figure as he always is. Prompto hasn’t seen his father in days, not since the address announcing the engagement to the public. It’s not a surprise though, he and the Emperor have never little to speak of these. Prompto is sure the man wouldn’t be here if not for the fact that the council insisted, to show the public that Prompto was favored and that his father cared.

They’re a happy family didn’t you know? The Emperor is devastated to have his son leave him. What a noble sacrifice, a father relinquishing hold on his only child, the only heir.

The goodbye isn’t a heartfelt one, but a feigning of one just the same. The Emperor allows Prompto close enough that the cameras are fooled into believing that they’re embracing and sharing final words. When in actuality, Prompto can’t remember the last time his father embraced him, when the last time his touch didn’t hurt.

He does well not to flinch or shake, only sparing a brief glance behind him once he boards the airship, sending a final wave to the only home he’s ever known.

 

-

 

Prompto is to travel with Aranea Highwind for she’s the handpicked guard allowed by his side as per agreement settled on before the treaties signing. He’s glad for this; Aranea treats him less as a prince and more as the boy he wishes he was. She respects him, but only because it’s something he’s earned, a fact she mentioned to him once after a successful training session when he was sixteen. A fact she’ll deny when asked about it directly, but her loyalty is written in different ways.  

“You excited to see Lucis?” she asks an hour into their journey, already bored with little to do.

He shrugs. “I guess. I’ve read a lot about it, but I think I’d enjoy it more if the circumstances were different.”

The thing about being around Aranea is that Prompto doesn’t have to be careful with his words. He doesn’t have to lie to her if he doesn’t want to, though sometimes he does, sometimes the feelings are a little too much to share with others. She understands in an odd way of hers and rarely ever pushes until she deems it necessary to do so.

“You mean if you weren’t getting married off,” she chuckles, elbow resting on the table and hand cradling her cheek as she peers at him. “I won’t tell anyone you aren’t that excited about becoming Lord Lucis Caelum.”

Prompto looks up from where he’s going through the pictures saved on his camera. It’s brand new, so the pictures aren’t many and space is still plenty. He’ll move them to his laptop when he gets the chance, possibly after they make into the Crown City. He wants to develop a few though, the ones of the night-blooming flowers and the smiling faces of the ladies that cared for him his entire life. Maybe he’ll be allowed to hang them up so he feels less lonely.

“I don’t know why I would be excited. I don’t know a thing about Prince Noctis.” He sighs, “I’m more nervous than anything, I think.”

“Well that’s normal, you’re always anxious.” Aranea says. Though her tone is not unkind, Prompto still feels a touch insulted. It’s true, but she doesn’t have to admit it.

“Sorry, it’s the anxiety,” he says plainly. Sarcasm and dry humor as defense mechanisms don't bother Aranea, but he leans back in his chair a little in case she didn’t appreciate it.

She doesn’t, but it’s only shown by the roll of her eyes and click of her tongue, “It could be a lot worse. not saying it isn’t pretty bad already, but it could be worse. He could be over twice your age with a bad back and smell.”

That’s true and maybe the saddest thing is that he wouldn’t even be surprised if his father married him off to someone much older, perhaps a little hurt because he’s always been big on emotions, but not surprised.

“He could be,” Prompto shrugs, “I’ve only seen him on the internet and we can’t trust that.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, shortcake. I met him once during peace talks a year ago. Pretty boy was as broody as any teenager fresh out of high school.”

Prompto blinks because sometimes he forgets Aranea’s station means she gets shipped off to different parts of Eos that need her attention and that she’s met Prince Noctis before. “Is that all? Just broody and teenager-y.”

“That’s all I got, yeah. Only stayed long enough to ruffle his feathers, which are easily ruffled. Or maybe he didn’t like the fact that a Niff was doing.”

_Niff_ , that’s a word Prompto isn’t sure about. Hearing it always makes his skin itch. He knows Niflheim is too long of a mouthful to say sometimes, but the shorter alternative doesn’t sound right. Maybe because it’s such a sharp sounding word, short and abrupt, a knife to the vocabulary. Or maybe because he’s only heard it in reference to something negative when tones of voices are harsh and cruel and spitting.

Niffs are bad, people from Niflheim are bad. He’s going to be hearing it a lot now so far away from home.

Aranea gives him a look of sympathy, misreading his discomfort for something when she says, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. You’re impossible to brood around because you look like a kicked puppy half the time.”

“I do not,” Prompto defends, punctuating his words with the shutter click of the camera, storing his first shot of Aranea in its memory.

It’s nice how the airships lighting plays with the shadows settling on her face and across her armor. Even in a relaxed position such as this, Aranea looks ready to jump into battle at any given second. And she always is, Prompto feels safe around her. That isn’t something he can say about most people he’s come to known.  

She raises a silver pale eyebrow, “I’ve known you for how long?”

“Ten years,” Prompto answers without missing a beat and seconds later the reason for her question sinks in as he sinks down into his seat. “I can’t control how my face looks all the time.”

“I know, kid.” Scoffs Aranea, “Don’t worry too much about it, you’ll get premature wrinkles.”

Prompto wants to say that he’s a prince, groomed into a role that requires him to have better control over his emotions, better control of what expression falls on his face at any given moment. He has to when in a room filled to the brim with council members and noble families and other people from Niflheim's upper echelon of society. It’s ruthless game and he’s always been bad at it. Maybe the Emperor is glad to foist him off for another family to deal with.

He doesn’t say any of this, of course, just bites his lip and messes with the available filters for a few seconds before finally speaking up again. “What’s going to happen to Biggs and Wedge? They aren’t allowed to follow you to Lucis, are they?”

“The agreement was one personal guard,” she explains and Prompto knows she thinks it’s a stupid rule. They spoke about it when it was first brought up, sending a prince to a foreign country with only one guard he can trust, “the boys’ll be staying back to make sure everything doesn’t go to shit while I’m gone. But once the treaty is signed and all that good stuff, they might be able to hang around for a bit.”

“Will you miss them?”

There are a few stretched seconds of silence when everything feels heavy before Aranea speaks again, “It’ll be boring without them around I know that but I’m stuck with you and you’re stuck with me, so we’ll have to make the most of it. Try not to be boring, shortcake, and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

 

-

 

Winters of Lucis are much different from Niflheim's winters, this Prompto realizes as soon as he steps out of the airship and into unfamiliar territory. For one, it isn’t as cold and the sun still shines high from its place in the sky as if it doesn’t disappear for weeks on end. No wonder the country thrives if its sun can still chase away the daemons all year round. He’s a little jealous and maybe would be more so if the sudden light shining off white snow didn’t hurt his eyes.

Aranea talks to the man that’s to be their driver, probably about confirming identification and how long it will take until their reach Insomnia proper. He should probably be there with her, introduce himself or have himself introduced to as it were, but anxious nerves keep him in place. Prompto wishes he had his camera, wishes he could take a picture of the glimmering winter landscape so different from what he’s used to seeing. But this close to the inevitable first meeting, he isn’t supposed to do anything that would disrupt his image as Niflheim's prince. He’s representing a country and people and a line of royalty by being here. Even having changed out of his much more comfortable traveling clothes into something more befitting his station, something much more befitting to wear when meeting a king and prince of another country.

The simple thought of the ever-growing closer event makes Prompto’s stomach turn again, an anxious feeling crawling and working its way up his throat. Maybe it’s cowardice that makes him want to run and pretend this agreement wasn’t made in the first place, but he can’t. Maybe in Niflheim he could have, but in Lucis, it’s much too late for that. They’d catch him before he makes it down the road.

“Your Highness,” Aranea’s voice cuts through the inky black of his thoughts, sudden clarity that makes Prompto startle, which makes Aranea huff a laugh in response, “we’re ready to leave, still have just about an hour before we reach Insomnia.”

“That’s fine,” Prompto nods his head slightly and begins walking, it’s known fact that Lucis doesn’t have many places for airships to conveniently dock, especially not so close to their capital. “so, who’s our escort.”

“A man favored among the ‘Glaive will be driving us,” Aranea answers, her voice pitched low so Prompto is the only one that can hear. “might be as trustworthy as you can get for now.”

Trust in a country fresh out of war, that will be hard come by. He won’t fool himself into thinking it isn’t, “But you don’t trust him.” More statement than question.

She looks at him as if wondering why he’d even state such an obvious thing, but the expression doesn’t last long, but long enough for Prompto to get the message before she straightens her posture upon moving closer to the man and his envoy.

He’s definitely a soldier, lean muscle and black leather ensemble and weapons lining his belt in plain view. Prompto can see the fall of braids behind his ear when he bows, just polite enough for a prince of a foreign country rather than his own.

“Prompto Argentum Aldercapt,” Aranea introduces him in a voice she only uses in moments such as these, when they aren’t mentor and student, but prince and captain. He hates it, but there are images to be upheld, regulations to abide by so no one doubts his station. “Crowned Prince of the Niflheim Empire.”  

“Nyx Ulric of the Kingsglaive,” the driver responds before rising, his voice a deep timbre. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

He wishes he could say the same thing, just to be polite, but princes are above soldiers in armies. Familiarity in any capacity might seem odd and Prompto doesn’t know what anyone’s expectations of himself are here. It’s better to play it safe as Aranea told him minutes before they landed. Distant enough to seem royal, but polite enough he doesn’t seem like an asshole. Or something along those lines.  

Instead, he says, “I must thank King Regis for sparing his soldiers to see me safely to the city.” There are six other cars besides the one Ulric is stationed next to, all sleek black with tinted windows. He has no doubt those drivers are also soldiers wearing black.  

“Well, you are an honored guest of Lucis, Your Highness,” Ulric says and opens the door. Aranea slips in first with easy grace and Prompto right after. “You can trust us to at least see you safely to the Crown City.”

The door is closed and Ulric enters the car right after which rumbles with a quiet ease that speaks of power when it starts up. The drive is smooth when they start and it’s interesting to see how advanced Lucis is with their cars compared to Niflheim, though they are an original invention of the Empire. The technology focus went elsewhere after all, into MTs and armors and guns and canons. Cars are a luxury item and the Empire chose to prepare for battle in the best way they knew how even if it meant lagging behind in other places.

“They got a video of you up, Your Highness,” Aranea says a few minutes into the drive, shoving her phone under Prompto’s nose.

His own phone is somewhere in one of the pockets of the robes he now wears, but it might seem rude to shuffle around to pull it out, so takes Aranea’s from her and watches what she pointed out.

It’s the video of his leaving Niflheim, the volume turned on mute but subtitles are on. The reporter is a woman with pale hair and pale eyes, only saying what’s happening and how sad they are to see the prince go, but how happy they are for the marriage and peace treaty that will follow. Prompto doesn’t focus on that, however, instead turning his attention to pixels that make up the memory of him and his father.

From an outsiders’ perspective, the embrace seems genuine, the moment touching and heartfelt. There’s a look on Prompto’s face in the video that could be confused with sadness, the shake his hands weren’t captured and immortalized in video. He looks paler in the dark though, the lights of the runway make him look washed out, more ghost than prince. But Niflheim during winter isn’t a place that betters an already pale complexion.

The video could be worse. He hands the phone back to Aranea.

“People are excited about you arriving, Your Highness,” Ulric speaks up from his place at the wheel. “No one was expecting a video of you leaving. Put things in perspective for them, I think.”

Made them realize that Niflheim's prince isn’t a boy made from myths or an MT designed to look real. Prompto’s read the speculations about himself on days when he’s curious and ends up hating himself a little less each time. Being barred from interacting with the public gives them free reign to think whatever they want. It’s not his fault the Empire doesn’t care much for public relations, that their PR sector is the small and getting smaller.

“We thought it would be a good idea for the people of Niflheim to know when I was leaving, to watch it if they wanted,” he confesses for lack of anything better to say. It’s the truth after all. He lets a few beats of silence pass. “Are they actually excited? You don’t have to lie.”

Ulric glances at his reflection through the rearview mirror, hesitant before speaking, “Most of them are. Not everyone gets to see a royal wedding.”

“And the rest?” Prompto urges, though he knows the answer, he still wants to hear it. Just to confirm, to be a little more prepared for the possibilities.

“The rest are,” Ulric halts to sigh and starts again, “Like with any political agreement, there are going to be some people that disagree with it, Your Highness. We’ve been fighting Niflheim for a long time, and to suddenly stop…tensions are still high with some people. War’s not easy to recover from.”

Prompto nods, stiffly. Though the official war has died down years ago now, there have still been years of border scrimmages and ambushes and sabotages and people dying. Not truly peace, but enough conflict to keep everyone edge. To have that be someone’s complete life and then have it completely stop must be an odd and alien feeling. He wants to apologize, but Niflheim has been desperate and dying because of this as well, more so than Lucis, and doing so would feel akin to betrayal towards the people who have sacrificed in the name of the Empire.

“All that and our only heir to the crown is being married off to a former enemy,” Ulric continues and shrugs, “You can see why some people aren’t too happy about the outcome.”

“It’s the same for us,” Aranea interjects, her voice an undercurrent of steel, so sharp it threatens to cut the air. “Prince Prompto’s our only heir and we have to send him into the heart of former enemy territory with only one guard.” She shrugs, a nonchalant tone overtaking her words, “Not that I couldn’t protect him if push came to shove, but just putting things in perspective.”

Ulric stiffens enough to be barely noticeable, and Prompto mentally sighs because he was hoping this final ride wouldn’t be awkward. He isn’t worried about them fighting in the car, there isn’t enough space and they have places to be. It’s the small mercies that keep him going.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Prompto placates, the presence of a stranger, and little else, keeps him from sinking down into his seat. Aranea wouldn’t mind because she’s seen him sprawled on the floor more than once having been the cause of it most times.

Ulric’s shoulders relax in increments, “Don’t worry about it, Your Highness. You had a valid question and I’m not often known for my tact, maybe I could have answered better.”

Aranea scoffs, a soft _maybe_ hidden in the sound, but Prompto chooses to ignore it, as does Ulric, either that, or he doesn’t catch it which is just as good.

“It’s fine,” Prompto says, a little unsure, unused to people apologizing directly to him. Or something close to an apology anyway. He’s touched by it more than he probably should be.

The rest of the ride settles into a silence once more save for the sound of wind against the windows and the soft rumble of the car. It’s not a silence of complete ease, but it isn’t oppressively awkward as it could be. Besides, how can he relax completely when the car rides closer to where his life will be changed? It’s a month before the wedding, but Prompto knows things will be different as soon as he takes his first step on Citadel’s stone.

For better or for worse it will be different, but at the very least he hopes it’s manageable.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sugarpunched) bc i have no beta and i need one


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